


gods & monsters

by daughterofspring



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vikings, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Old Norse, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-06-07 04:27:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15210977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daughterofspring/pseuds/daughterofspring
Summary: "A calloused hand, bloodied by those which once called the city home. Hands that may well have cut down her kin— her father, wove around an untamed lock of rich, brunette hair, lifting it to his nose. He grinned, unholy as it was, the cobalt ink dancing over his features seemed brighter against the starlit sky."During his first visit to the Meditteranean, Halfdan the Black takes interest in a young woman who finds herself caught in the wolfs line of sight. A doe for the slaughter.





	1. The Beast Comes Shroud in Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer:  
> I do not own Halfdan (sadly) or any of the Canon/Historical Characters in this story.  
> I am in no way affiliated with the television show; Vikings. My OC is my own so please do not claim her as you own. Please enjoy and be respectful.

It was deafening.

The sounds of their ships, harbingers of the end— monstrous entities gliding against the Iberian peninsula and crashing against the docks with a thunderous roar. It had been her home, her world until that very moment, that split second that it all fell apart under the blades of odd, ferocious looking brutes. _‘Run, my sweet, find a place to hide.’_ The very last words. Her father's voice lingering in her head, a basket of blood oranges spilling from her quaking hands. These were no traders.

These were foul beasts set upon their shores. The goddess, Ataegina, could not save her loyal follower from the murderous men that came to plunder her home. There would be no mercy for the Iberian girl for the fates had allowed little room to think, much less breath as the clouds of smoke filled the salted air. Screams pierced the night sky, the moon bleeding, distressed to bear witness to such savagery.

Neves was running out of space, her feet had broken free of her sandals, the constant jingle of golden, beaded trinkets would place anyone after her. There was nowhere to go, nowhere in the bustling capital. Had she been home, had they waited a day longer to venture outland— Her mind wandered as her lungs filled with fire, the twilight breeze stinging her olive skin and whipping dark shrouds of wild waves like a veil behind as she hurtled towards a destination unknown. How could she have left her father with such haste? A coward to leave a scholar alone and defenceless, but what could she have done? What good would wit do her, now?

The Mosque had fallen silent beyond the call to prayer. She knew a great deal of those who practiced the faith from home. She knew well enough that even in the wake of a storm; bloody and born of carnage, they would remain steadfast in their faith and she thought for a swift, fleeting moment, safety could be found in the halls of Muhammad. Surely their prophet welcomed wayward souls whose gods had abandoned them to death. Neves should have known by then, as she crashed into **_his_** frame.

Hardy and solid and larger than he truly was in that moment. Their eyes lock. Two shades of the same spectrum but wildly spoken apart. She with those wide like a Doe-like siren; bright and molten gold and his, the darkest hue of obsidian, narrowed with a dark, lingering curiosity. _“No!”_ simple words, spoken with foolish ferocity as her hands came up, blocking her frame from the space between them.

But. He did not speak her tongue. Nor did she his, but Neves ears shuddered with fear at the sound of his swarthy chuckle, sable eyes filled with a hunger that killed what naivety remained in her heart. The beast would swallow the beauty whole, sustain himself with hearty marrow and pick his teeth with her bones. He stepped closer, effective in his intent to trap her between his lean frame and the stone of a place meant for divinity but soiled by this fiend. Even as her body trembled, even as the panic made home constricting her chest, her spirit would not waver. Irises emboldened like embers of a blazing flame glared into darkness, _“NO!”_ she repeated this time.

_He chuckled once more._

A calloused hand, bloodied by those which once called the city home. Hands that may well have cut down her kin— her father, wove around an untamed lock of rich, brunette hair, lifting it to his nose. He grinned, unholy as it was, the cobalt ink dancing over his features seemed brighter against the starlit sky. **_“fegrð”_** His mother-tongue was harsh against her ears— guttural and predatory as his head tilted, a shroud of golden blonde covering a pitch-dark eye from view. He was a wolf decided on whether or not he wished to play with his meal. Her breath kept catching in her throat. The beat of her heart thundered against her chest and it was all she could to raise a hand and strike like the cornered animal she was. The adrenaline made the Iberian girl so desperate, so imprudent to strike such a brute. _“Just kill me already!”_

He snickered once more, unaffected by the open palm made up of delicate fingers. **_“þú'st, þú est_** minn ** _ǫndóttr fegrð”_** There it was, brutal and smooth on his tongue. His smile reminded her of the stories the Christians recalled, much of the devil and all his ways…

No, her gods would grant not an ounce of _mercy_ tonight.


	2. of grief and salted seas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Arms took a grip of her frame, pulling the hysterical beauty he had taken for himself away from the sight of carnage. Though, Halfdan had more a mindset to simply clunk his shiny little slave over her lovely head to knock her into darkness."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all. i wanted to thank everyone for the hits, as well as the feedback. i know it's been a really long ass time since my last chapter but, i have been crazed with life and lacking the muse but now, i have some time off for the holidays and a wealth of time on my hands to get some writing done. i have, decided just to place his dialogue in italics to emphasize that it is indeed in old norse, mainly cause it slipped my mind to place the translation( he was basically calling her beauty ). also, if you are wondering how to pronounce our protagonist's name it is " Nev-is ".   
>  I do not own Halfdan (sadly) or any of the Canon/Historical Characters in this story.  
> I am in no way affiliated with the television show; Vikings. My OC is my creation so please do not claim her as your own. Please enjoy and be respectful.

Neves had not the recollection of time, her nerves had taken shelter in numbness as her frame had allowed her captor to lift her over his shoulder with ease. The wailing's of mercy had faded into exhausted mutterings of broken faith slipped between the haunting cackling of flames and scent of iron heavy on the air. The young woman had been so impossibly frantic in her search-- seeking her father as the brute moved about towards the dock to load his bounty into the nightmarish hull of the ship. Nothing. He was not to be found no matter how thorough her own gaze. Until-- her fingertips had curled around the edge of the ship, splinting as she attempted to hurl herself from the craft as she cried out for her father who laid upon the edge of the docks, lifeless eyes gazing upwards to the heavens. “--papa!” the sting of hot tears stung her eyes.

Arms took a grip of her frame, pulling the hysterical beauty he had taken for himself away from the sight of carnage. Though, Halfdan had more a mindset to simply clunk his shiny little slave over her lovely head to knock her into darkness. His dark gaze had not freed itself from the Iberian since it had locked onto her frame and when it did the course was charted to the direction of the slaughtered man. The way she had lamented, a pattern-- a title perhaps, the only word of similarity in their opposing tongues compelled a part of him to shield the site of her fathers torn throat as the ships parted from these pillaged lands. even still, the Norseman felt no guilt. It had not been his blade which slew the helpless man and even if it had-- he owed his prize nothing. She would come to witness the violence of he and his kin, this was their way of life, a sacred bond of man and gods that all those caught in their path would find so savagely monstrous. “shhh.” Halfdan hissed. The Viking would hardly be considered a man of tact when it came to women, never mind one in the midst of grieving hysterics.

The brute was strong. Of this, Neves had never paused to doubt. Larger than most men she had ever encountered and in her own fit of heart-wrenching mania, she had not truly realized the purposefulness of his actions. That for his part, the warrior had placed himself between his captive and the sight already burned to the back of her eyelids likely to haunt her until the end of her own days. To the Iberian, He was still a monster--- a harbinger of chaos and decimation to her lands now left in a pile of ash and gore. Her hands coiled into fists, waning strength evident with every landing punch to his chest as her tongue spewed hateful obscenities.

Halfdan took every weakened blow with a lingering grin written over his lips. Counting each as she wove a tapestry of words he could only imagine spoke of her unfiltered loathing. It amused him to no end and as it seemed, to those around him who began to break into a fit of laughter. His own brother's voice had boomed above them all as he came to stand beside the pair. _“ not_ too _late to throw her overboard. “_ he chuckled, darkly. _“though it would be a shame to waste such a beauty. “_ Neves had begun to exhaust all that remained of her strength.

Her hurled fists had all but ceased at the sound of another voice-- husked and brutalized by their rough language. She had felt herself recoil into the brute when the foreign hand reached to graze the soft flesh of her flushed cheeks. His enjoyment of her reaction had been clear as his chest vibrated with laughter.

 _“ more a shame to waste the fire.”_ he had replied. His onyx gaze had dipped at the feeling of her body slackening against him.

The surge of adrenaline, the wave of mourning and shock catching up and the Viking settled her to the base of the wooden hull, crowding her quaking frame with wool. Her honeyed gaze was empty, naught else but the overwhelming sensation of sorrow call her to sleep. Neves had woken only to the sent of salted sea air filling her calling to an unquenched thirst. But she did not wake to the mirage of hope. Her eyes did not weakly blink open with the anticipation to wake warm in her own bed after a nightmare of beasts massacring ancient grounds. No-- her slumber had faded between darkness and the recollection of her father's demise. Dreams splattered in ichor and accompanied by the melody of agonizing screams.

 **And he was there**.

A wicked smirk lifting his carved, inked jaw and unholy opal eyes studying her reaction. As if he was hoping for panic to strike her features but he seemed all the more intrigued by the way her dry throat bobbed as she swallowed her fear. Eyes hardening with a feigned resolve that would have made her mother proud to see, but they weakened the moment it drifted to the cup in his hand and thirst took over. Halfdan trailed the path of her gaze filled with the haze of two full days sleep.

Hours he had entertained himself whittling driftwood and watching the rise and fall of the nameless woman's chest in slumber. He pushed himself off the frame of the longship, moving to crouch in front of her, head quirked and contemplating a taunt but instead he offered the cup with no ill intent. He had never a slave of his own, always using ones in service to his brother. But perhaps, that was a kind explanation in the manner that he utilized other women, how he respected kin and cared little for others outside the realms of what made them useful. But he had a home of his own, unloved, unkempt and just as the gods had graced and guided his weapons they had too, placed this one in his path. The fight within her was something to be admired, along with every curve of flesh and beauty that might consume and cripple weaker men. For that, she was spared.

Ochre irises had offered some skepticism to his offering of watered mead, but her throat was too parched to let pride stand in the way of the need. Neves was slow to drink, her eyes fluttering shut at the quenching sweetness of the liquid. “thank you.” she spoke. Even if he would not understand, she uttered it softly before she peered out over the expanse of the sea, focusing on anything but the ache in her heart and the grief weighed upon her soul. 

It remained much that way. days bleeding into one another, and the fading in and out of a sleep she prayed to any god or goddess that would listen to spare her of terrors the moment her eyes shut. it was on a night she counted to be the eighth that the man had settled next to her, a small, precise blade in his grip silently carving into a bit of wood that from her peripherals appeared as an animal of some sort and when she had glanced with more intent, she had found a detailed wooden etching of a wolf. he smiled, sensing her lingering stare. his dark eyes creasing beneath the shroud of golden tresses as he turned to hold up the piece. _**"** úlfr. (wolf)"  _the warrior offered the word, a lesson imparting one word she could place in her own language with a visual. it wasn't like the barrage of sentences she attempted to piece together word by word spoken about the ship. " _úlfr."_ she repeated. her accent on the new word rolled with the heaviness of her latin brogue. but it was spoken well enough that he nodded his head and tested another. _"_  Halfdan. _"_ calloused hands pointed to himself. again she repeated, allowing it to settle on her tongue. 

her mind began to recall the times she had heard the very same word, in her brief moments of consciousness. the brute was offering his name. "Neves." she provided the very same, a hand curled in on herself as she took a bite of bread. when he tested it out, the Iberian had to hide the slightest of grins behind the chunk of rye, though she nodded, gently and sunk back into herself, stilled and quietly willing herself not to become sick at the sheer absurdity of it all. 


	3. a bit of home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had been far too busy living within her own turmoil to allow reality to settle in. Dark brows knit together, with a glimmer of defiance blazing in her gaze. “ I do not wish to learn any of their ways. ” she huffed, placing the blade down and crossing her arms, an action which only caused Agri to roll her warm green eyes and place her basket upon the heavy, pine table.

For all intent, it seemed as though she had been abandoned here by the brute. Even if he could mime instructions, he had not. The home was hardly touched from what she could tell and in the passing days, she had plenty of time to draw upon her own conclusions. 

Though, for the first three days, she mourned beyond the hull of the ship. Her anger would wake her each morn, the agony would drive her back to tears, wallowing within the heap of furs and deadpanning the flickering embers left over from the fire he would stoke when he returned well into the night and left as the sun rose. Neves would feign slumber when she heard his footfalls against the stone-- peering through a squint of her gaze as the warrior discarded his armor and weapons each night and found a few hours of sleep sprawled in a chair. 

On the fourth day, the Iberian had risen at the sound of a birdsong and of the fire crackling in the hearth. The home was empty, and yet the log was fresh atop the remaining pile charred from the night. She had missed him again, it seemed. But the sinking feeling in her gut had the woman shaking her head and scoffing. Going mad with grief and loneliness it seemed, that she would feel a fleeting surge of sadness to find him gone. 

Rising from the bed she had made a home since arriving, Neves groaned. The tottering had stiffened her youthful bones into those belonging to an ancient being, it was then she came to be offended by her own scent. Before she even though of the hunger grumbling about in her stomach, all she could think of was refreshing her skin. For the first time, she snooped about his hut, searching for anything which resembled soap. Instead, she had become distracted by trinkets and oddities lining the walls and archways. Her curious hands pawing a simple blade but the hilt had caused her eyes to widen with awe at the intricacy of carved bone-- a bird? Or was it a “ Neves?” she had screamed at the sound of her name spoken softly by a voice she did not recall. 

She had spun on her heels, the blade pointed to the intruder standing the doorway, beneath the embellished stag skull. A woman. Her greying hair plaited simply into one long piece and dressings a simple shade that reminded her of turmeric roots. She was smiling, eyeing the blade with little concern. “ you won't need that.” she spoke once more, in a language she had not heard since that fateful night her world had been taken away. If she had any left to shed that day, the tears would have fallen like a rushing cascade of water to hear something familiar in this foreign land. 

“ were you-- are you from my homeland?” Neves' voice was small, weakened by the burdening weight of emotions. 

“Constantinople, but that was long ago-- I am called Agri.” the older woman offered her name, kindness, and sympathy extended in every word for years ago she had been forced in a similar position. “ I am to teach you their ways, their tongue. Your duties as a slave.” 

She had been far too busy living within her own turmoil to allow reality to settle in. Dark brows knit together, with a glimmer of defiance blazing in her gaze. “ I do not wish to learn any of their ways. ” she huffed, placing the blade down and crossing her arms, an action which only caused Agri to roll her warm green eyes and place her basket upon the heavy, pine table. 

“ you will, girl. If you want to survive. “ her eyes narrowed, her brogue hardened by years of speaking Norse. “The king's brother has never taken a slave beyond what men use women for. He is respected a feared and a man of some practiced patience but if you do not mind yourself, he will not hesitate to end your life and I doubt whatever gods you cling to will find you here.” 

The young woman suddenly felt a child again, scolded by a mother or brashly spoken aunt for stepping out of line. Neves swallowed a budding lump of panic bubbling in her throat as honeyed irises widened with shock and certain fear. After a few beats and a paced inhale to slow the quickening of her heart, she nodded. 

The chill could be felt beyond the bone, the dampness of the sea air had settled into marrow but, at least she was clean. Agri had helped the young woman wash away the weeks of grime from sea travel and melancholy and now she felt more of herself. The scent of honey and goats milk on her skin, sweet almond oil scenting her tresses, and a new gown on her frame breathed a new sort of spirit into the slave. Though, it could not shut the eyes upon her, watching every movement was far more a concern to the foreigner. Most women offered looks of passiveness, others with furrowed brows and soft, lingering glances of pity. The men were another tale-- enduring glares of lewdness that had Neves pulling her cloak closer to her frame as she went about fetching water from a well near the hut. 

Through a veiled lock of gold, he watched, quietly from the dais built outside the king's hall. He leaned over the heavy wooden railing, horn in hand. Obsidian could have been following the flow of folk bustling about Rogaland but instead, they stayed glued to the Iberian woman, taking instructions from a shipbuilder's foreign wife. “ Have you not taken her yet, brother?” Harald's voice sounded as heavy boots carried over the wooden planks., finally slumping down in a chair and sorting through his fine hair with a whalebone comb.   
“no.” the reply came, twitching his lip and taking a hearty swill. Halfdan bore his teeth, hissing with frustration. “ Are you to ask me the same stupid question each day?” 

The older brother chuckled out his response, his calloused fingers following the picks path. “ Until I get the answer I want, or you hand the beauty over to me.”

The younger scoffed, eyes narrowed though never in spite towards his kin. “ She will give you the answer, brother. You and the whole of Norway will hear her scream.” a darkening grin of mischief found his lips as his gaze fixated on Neves finding her way back to his home. In truth, he should have had her by now-- more he should have taken from her what he wanted over and over but instead, the warrior refrained from his savage instincts by abstaining from lifting her skirts and rutting into delectable curves. Halfdan had satiated his need by taking willing slaves his brother often favored and spending most of his days within the comfort of the woods or drinking among the returned men in Harald's great hall. He deliberately avoided the woman now under his keep and command. The foreign beauty that stirred more than a simple curiosity within. 

But she would be fickle, just like the rest. The trail of thought had lingered even as he returned home late into each night, aware of her lovely gaze even as she pretended to be sleeping. Then each morning would rise to place more warmth on the hearth and afford her a brushing of a calloused fingertip over the curve of her cheek. 

“It is lucky for you, Agri speaks her tongue.” Harald's voice cuts through his mind and the king received a grunt in response. 

“She is a slave, brother. What good is she if she does not speak our language!” 

his retort had come out far more aggressive than he had intended, causing the older Halfdansson to lift his palms in a show of peace. There was enough experience in the ruler of Vestfold to know just when his younger brother was troubled by something-- but not since the age of thirteen had he been so engaged in a woman. The girl had broken his heart then, malice shining in her grey eyes as she told Halfdan of her intentions to marry the son of an earl. Perhaps it had been no coincidence that it had been the first of lands to be taken in the campaign to rule all of Norway. 

But the fearsome Viking did not linger to respond further when he caught the slip of a smile lifting her cheeks from where he stood. Her head had been thrown back in a fit of laughter at something Agri had spoken. He could have gone to her then, for he could feel the hunger rile within-- the monstrous need that sparked and he guzzled down the remnants of his horn, tossing it aside and stalking into the great hall in search of a woman to take out his frustrations upon.


End file.
